


I Feel You

by Eirenei



Series: Scrapbook Jewels [23]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eirenei/pseuds/Eirenei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur didn't love Guinevere. He loved his friend. Lancelot wasn't in love with Guinevere. Instead, he loved his friend. This is the true story about the thirteenth knight of the round table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or King Arthur. Or the song – it belongs to 3 Doors Down – "I Feel You"
> 
> Shout Out: /Growl/. History bug bites again. Watching the movie, I couldn't help but take the story and tweak it a little. It always did seem farfetched to me that Arthur was so blind in regards of Guinevere and for Lancelot choosing a ho before a bro, was just a crime. So I compromised and voila, before I even knew it, the story was running away with me.
> 
> Warnings: I muddled in history-again. Alright, I mucked the things up a lot. This is half – history and half – quasi stories the bards were so fond of. As for pairing – this is SLASH – yup, you know it, and this time, it's Arthur (Artorius)/Harry/Lancelot. Oh, and another thing. I primarily used Latin names for the original characters, and I decided to keep Arthur's original version of the name - thus Artorius. It has some movie spoilers, but it's still different enough not to spoil the movie itself – and oh yeah, some character deaths. That will be all, folks... now, enjoy!
> 
> By the way, I bashed Guinevere /cringes/. Too similar to Ginny, just a little bit cleverer...
> 
> Okay, happy reading!

* * *

_And what do I get to get me through these sleepless nights?_  
And what do I have to hold when no one's there to hold me tight?  
And what do I see - the only thing that gets me through this is what I feel - and I feel you.

_(by 3 Doors Down –I Feel You)_

* * *

It was funny in a sense. They were together for fifteen years – fifteen bloody years, filled with pain, blood, cursing and death. Fifteen years, that would soon come to an end.

Lancelot still remembered the day he had to leave his family – his stern father, and his kind mother; he still had the souvenir the little girl had given him. In fact, the only things he had, when he had left his home were the clothes on him, his steed and his sword.

In his dreams, there still echoed the harsh and often uncultured language of Samartians, his people. The war cry was almost his only constant that accompanied him on the battlefield, an announcement that he was ready, willing and able to gamble his life on the tips of his swords, on his faithful steed and his body to get him through.

In his dreams, he still saw the planes of his beloved country, the light hair of the little girl that smiled at him so trustingly. He had almost forgotten her name – in fact, if someone would have asked him, he wasn't sure if he would remember her name at all... but he remembered her light- coloured hair and warm smile.

He had been through many adventures – some were death defying and hair–raising ones, and others were just plain fun, a folly of his youth. Some of them were of goading Bors to prove his balls – not that anyone doubted he had them, some were of ribbing Gawain on his apparent love of the feathered menace that accompanied him everywhere – truly, they joked that Gawain was married to the bird as it was and even if Gawain had some kind of fun between the sheets, the bird was there.

Dag was not so fun to goad, but he held his ale like not many men could. Artorius was his angsty self, as always. Truthfully, Lancelot sometimes wondered just why they had such a sourpuss for a leader. Artorius was a great leader... yeah. But as a person, he often went somewhere that even Lancelot couldn't follow him. When he had his spells of moping, or as Romans termed it – cramming his skull with philosophy of some kind, Lancelot was completely lost.

And then, there was Harry. From the twelve of the knights, he was the thirteenth one. Lancelot had to close his eyes for a moment. Harry was the glue that held him and Artorius together. True, he may have been Artorius' closest friend and confidant, but Harry was the one that knew him, Lancelot, the best. Lancelot could rave, bitch, moan – not that he was a woman, mind you, but sometimes, venting off to a person was rather therapeutic to do.

The meeting between the three of them was, as was many things in the universe, accidental. Lancelot may have been a good knight and comfortable on the horseback, but he absolutely couldn't stand the voyage via boats. Not that it was anything humiliating – but for those Roman bastards to see him like this... this was mortifying for the young boy. He spent most of the time hurling his guts into the sea, when someone grabbed the scruff of his neck and tugged him back on the board.

The only thing Lancelot managed to discern among all the swimming pictures, were concerned green eyes.

 _'Pretty,'_ mumbled his mind – or did he say it aloud? - Before he fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

He woke up sometime later, covered with thick cloak and a bundle of fur under his head.

He heard someone quietly murmuring to the huge gray steed that had attracted his attention when they were boarding the boat. The steed was very temperamental, and nobody wanted to risk ending being trampled under those hooves – but somehow, the steed was coaxed on the boat without much of a fuss. The steed was light grey, and his mane was dark grey. The small form that tended to the stallion was being nuzzled by the said animal, when Lancelot coughed weakly.

The form turned and approached him, much to the ire of the stallion who snorted in disdain and stomped a couple of times against the creaking wood. "Quiet, Regis." The soft voice commanded, making the stallion snort again, but he stopped with the ruckus.

And then, Lancelot saw the shade. The lamp gave off a weak light, but it was enough.

The shade was actually a boy – small, tiny waif with skeletal face and too old eyes. The boy was clothed in clothes that had seen better times and were repaired so many time they were more like some kind of a demented form of a patchwork, crudely sewn together to make a tunic than tunic itself. Lancelot, however, didn't look at the clothes.

He looked straight into those green eyes.

Later on, he found out that his caretaker was called Harry and he was, like Lancelot, headed to the Hadrian's' wall to defend the Roman settlers.

From then on, as they say, it was a history.

* * *

Stormy gray eyes looked at the moon. He was empty. He clutched to himself his father's sword, reliving those terrible moments once again. Tomorrow, he would join the new batch of recruits – rumour had it that the new batch of Samartian knights had arrived yesterday - or at least the recruits that would – or would not – made it through to seize the title.

It had been a rough couple of months, since that terrible raid that took his mother's life. He still had nightmares of not being able to save her – of not being strong enough to get through the fire, to blow the door open and carry her out. He still dreamed about the scent of the burnt meat, that chaos and pain which reigned among the slaves and he still saw those merciless flames mercilessly eating away all they could devour. Instead his mother's lullaby, the last sounds he heard were crude words and cusses of the soldiers, and harsh hand that delivered bruises and occasionally broken bones, was his only caress in those days.

He blinked as he heard a faint sound. And again. It was so fleeting that he thought he dreamed it. The sound tugged him out of his self- imposed funk for enough time for hit to try and search for the elusive melody.

The night was cold and he snuggled deeper into the cloak. Thankfully, winter was over, meaning that they wouldn't have to suffer the freezing temperatures and snow anymore, but they would be plagued with rain, fog and mud nonetheless. A miserable prospect for the aspiring fighters – but when a soldier's life wasn't miserable?

Finally, after some stumbling around, he managed to find the musician. It was a boy, smaller than him, who was playing at the wooden flute. The flute's melody was calm and mournful, reminding him of the serene evenings he had spent with his mother – his father was more often than not, in the company of his knights. Not that he didn't like the knights – quite the opposite – but he sometimes missed his father and wished that he would have spent more time with him instead with his subordinates.

And yet, the melody gave him a type of solace, like cool water in hot summer day. He watched the boy play, noticing the messy dark hair brushing thin shoulders.

The boy paused, and his heart lurched forward. "Don't stop." He spoke, almost against his own will, making the other boy yelp with surprise and fumble for the sword.

He had to bit a chuckle as he watched the musician's clumsy movements. Finally deciding to reveal himself, he stepped out of the shadows. "Don't go, please. Play." He pleaded with the boy.

The boy froze. "You – want me to play?" He asked hesitantly. His speech was a strange mixture of bastardized Latin and Samartian and for a moment, Artorius felt a pang of longing after those kind, happy times that were irreversibly lost to the past.

"Yeah," He said hesitantly. "If – if you want to."

The boy watched him for a moment, and then nodded. "Alright. But I have to go back later. Lancelot wants to show me a new trick with his blades." The boy's soft voice enchanted him somehow and he was jealous of this... Lancelot person. It was so not fair!

They spend an hour, before the boy excused himself and ran into the darkness, making Artorius feel the loneliest he had ever been.

* * *

So imagine his shock the next day when he was grouped along with the curly dark-haired boy who was called Lancelot. At first, the two didn't get along, but when some of bullies thought the duo would be a great target to vent their frustration over with real swords this time, they quickly teamed up. At the end of the scuffle, they were dirty, bloodied and grinning with savage delight while the would – be bullies fled away to lick their wounds somewhere.

After that bonding experience, Lancelot dragged him away to introduce him to Harry.

They had the lesson on horseback riding. Lancelot was chatting away when they were saddling their respective steeds. But there was no head and no tail about Harry. When asked about it, Lancelot had shrugged and said that Harry probably had to mind Regis – much to Artorius' confusion. Lancelot explained that Harry acted as the minder of the beast of their commander.

They heard the ruckus at the stable, and lo and behold, their commander was riding the biggest stallion Artorius had ever seen, to the front of the cadets. The beast was indeed huge, light gray with dark gray, almost black mane. However, it seemed that the stallion wasn't happy with the man on his back. The commander reined him in with difficulty, but because the stallion was restless, the commander had enough of the beast and kicked it into the sides harshly.

Artorius watched with wide eyes, as the stallion froze for a moment, before he whistled with fury and then he bucked under the man, strong muscles bunching and relaxing in waves that came and went almost too fast to properly discern them. The horse propelled itself on his hind legs, dark eyes wild with fury as the men around tried to calm the beast down.

"I swear, this beast has to be Hades' spawn," One of the nearby soldiers grunted out as he idly watched the fight between the man and beast... which the beast was obviously winning. "But _noo,_ Ranulfus just _HAD_ to ride the damned thing," He groused, lone eye screwed shut with aggravation. Lancelot snickered at Artorius' bewildered face. "Uh, what?" Artorius asked dumbly.

The soldier looked at Artorius. "Oh, you don't know. Long story short, this devil horse here only allows that kid to take care of him, and everyone else is else bitten or kicked the hell out of." The man sighed. "Before the kid came, this hell spawn of a horse was a nightmare to deal with... we always diced for who will take care of the beast for the evening and even if it had been fun, all of us were relieved when the brat took over its care. However, Ranulfus still claims that the horse is his and therefore he rides it... much to the horse's apparent disapproval," He ended with amused smirk on his face.

"Now, watch the fun, boy." He instructed to wide eyed Artorius. Then, he turned into the stable's way and roared. " _BRAT!_ Come out and get that hell spawn of yours calm already!"

A faint "Coming!" was yelled back, before there was a short whinny and Artorius saw a small form riding the dark brown's horse's back. The kid steered the horse only with his body, as the beast had nothing on – no bridle, no saddle and yet, it obeyed the boy's commands as if it had its leashes on.

As soon as the grey horse got the whiff of the newcomers, it turned violently on its front legs, successfully dislodging its rider into the nearest puddle of mud and in the next moment, he turned around to attack the dark brown horse and it's rider, neighing with fury.

The dark brown horse stopped as if nailed into the ground, while it's rider jumped down and ran in front of the infuriated beast. "Regis! _STOP!_ " The boy shouted, as if he wasn't afraid that the huge gray stallion could –and would trample him the very next moment.

The stallion's gray body froze in the mid of the lounge. Those hard hooves stepped down on the ground just a few inches away from the boy's head. The stallion made a growling sound towards the dark brown horse who skittered away from the duo, while the gray horse nuzzled the boy's black messy hair, tugging on the strands painfully, making the boy yelp with pain. "Ow! Okay, okay, you big baby..." The boy complained, grinning fondly at the beast, while he got the bridle off the horse's head. "Happy now?" The horse chuffed as it nuzzled his shoulder.

Artorius stared. This boy was the same who played the flute last night! He felt Lancelot nudge his ribs. "That's Harry. He's my friend and official caretaker of the gray terror here, Regis."

The boy took the saddle off the horse by now, much to the confusion of the recruits.

"Give it up. Ranulfus," One of the seasoned soldiers called out to the seething commander. "The beast obviously likes the brat better than you, so you will just have to swap yer horses." "Shut up, wiseass," The commander barked back, his cheeks red with embarrassment. "I will get the bastard, even if it's the last thing I do." The soldiers chuckled at his petulant tone. " 'Tis not good, commander," The soldier that spoke with Artorius before called out. "If you wanna explain to Rome just why they have to supply so many horses to that miserable isle, you're welcome to do so." "You too, Aegidius?" The commander growled back. "Yup." The soldier, now known as Aegidius nodded back, idly scratching his three day beard.

A tense silence reigned. "You owe me, you one-eyed bastard," the commander finally growled out. Aegidius snorted. "I know, I know," he said with a mock – suffering sigh.

The lesson in horseback riding was interesting, to say the least. Regis didn't suffer any horse in his perimeter and Harry rode the beast without saddle or the bridle. It was a funny sight at first – a tiny boy on the back of the huge stallion, but the pair was so tuned into each other that they seemed to be one person.

And Artorius finally knew the name of his new friend.

* * *

Through the years, the three of them – Lancelot, Harry and Artorius – became thick as thieves. Regis was as irritable as ever, but he finally accepted saddle and the bridle although he still liked to terrorise other horses under his hooves.

Their beginning class of 25 people had been whittled through the skirmishes to whole thirteen, and later on, nine people. Nine knights that would be soon going wherever their fancy would take them. Except for Bors, none of them had created a family in this cold and dark land. Some of them, like Lancelot, wanted to go back to the wide planes where their family awaited them, and some, like Artorius and Harry, intended to go to Rome, to see the city for themselves.

But it wasn't so simple.

Those Roman bastards just had to drop on the one last mission that likened to suicide. Hell, you had more chances to commit a suicide and survive than go to the north wall and rescue the settlers without a scratch or unavoidable skirmish with either Saxons or Woads.

The night before they were to take off to do the insane task the Romans simply deemed as a mission, there was a tension between the trio.

Lancelot was pissed at Artorius for his kissing up to the bastard bishop. Even Artorius admitted that this particular mission was bound to be no good but the stubborn horse ass had to take the thing as a matter of honour. And the knights knew Artorius – if there was an honour involved in, Artorius would break no quarter.

They had been together through many insane happenings, but this time, Lancelot honestly felt that Artorius sense of honour would kill them. But because Harry trusted Artorius... Lancelot groaned, face-palming. He didn't have any other choice than to follow the two fools and guard their backs.

Harry... He sighed, looking at the rumpled sheets on Harry's little cot. Undoubtedly, Harry was, once again, with Regis. He always did that, when he was upset about something. Lancelot dearly wanted to go after Harry, but something held him back.

It would be too dangerous. It would be easier to find some wench and fuck her through the thin mattress – heavens knew he needed relief, because come morning, he would have none.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to stand up and head out. Instead, he curled into his cloak and gingerly moved to Harry's cot. Pressing his face down, he inhaled the scent that was a mixture of horse, hay, blood and something that was Harry. This scent was as familiar to him as his own. This scent, he associated with his home. And yet, it was tantamount to torture he didn't have the real thing against his body. Closing his eyes, he grabbed a fistful of a fabric and sighed into it. The sheets were cold – Lancelot didn't expect anything else, but he could imagine that they were still warm from Harry's body. It was his secret vice, snuggling into the still-warm sheets when Harry rose up to take care of Regis. Lancelot's most cherished memory was of that time when they were lost in the winter and they had to hole up to wait out the blizzard. Harry's body against his was a precious memory that heated his body and made his heart beat faster. Despite of all the bragging and teasing he had done, Lancelot knew the bitter truth...

He was in love with Harry.

* * *

Artorius closed his eyes. His heart was heavy with dread and guilt. Even if he said to Lancelot that they would get out of the last mission without trouble, that he had faith in their abilities, he knew he had spouted bullshit. With Woads on the move, Saxons pillaging the villages, even Artorius seriously doubted that something wouldn't go wrong sooner than later. The weight of leadership weighted him down now more than ever – it hurt that Lancelot disagreed with him, but he understood his friend. Harry didn't say anything, but Artorius knew. Harry didn't approve of the Roman's latest harebrained scheme, but he knew they had to comply if they wanted to get the passes through the Roman Empire. Nobody relished being hunted more than strictly necessary, thank you very much – fifteen years of that particular hide-and-seek were more than enough.

And yet, he was concerned. For Bors – how would he tell Vanora that her lover had died in one unnecessary skirmish? Not that Bors would, he was too strong for that, but shit happens. And the latest mission just reeked of shit. Lancelot was close to his heart and he would loathe to lose him to the stray arrow or sword. Then Tristan, Gawain, Galahad, Dagonet... and Harry. Seven knights - seven of the twenty-five that began training and of the thirteen that managed to survive through fifteen long years, filled with bloodshed and death. He was scared to lose them – even knowing that they were superior in handling their weapons - no, that wasn't right.

He was afraid of losing Harry.

Through those years, he became close with Lancelot – hell, Lancelot became his best friend and closest confidant, but Harry was – Harry was something more. He didn't dare to admit it to himself – not even in the darkest of nights. Not even when he was alone with himself, did he dare to think about the shameful secret he was carrying in the deepest piece of his heart. Their separation would come soon enough – one more mission, and then, the eight of them would go wherever the wind would will them to. Some would try to find their family, like Lancelot. Bors was trying to get out with dying on the battlefield... unsuccessfully. Apparently, causing bloodshed was much more interesting than dying on the enemy's weapon. Artorius himself didn't know. He was on soon to be no man's land – even if he had been born on the dreary isle, he didn't belong to it. He was a Halfling – half Breton and half – Roman yet, that didn't help him about determining where he would settle down. He had thought to go in Rome after this mess would be done and gone over with but -

Each hour, each moment brought him closer to the separation from them. Each minute that slid through his hands was one that tore at his heart little bit more than previous one had.

Closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, he sat on his bed. His room was one that reminded him of his Roman heritage the most – the philosophy, those high ideals – but that didn't help him one whit with the dilemma he was facing now.

Artorius groaned. It would be a long, long night before he would fell asleep – if at all.

Somewhere under the tree, a mournful melody was heard to be carried away by the wind.

None of the three friends slept much that night.

* * *

They were on their way for three days now. The weather was miserable – rain, cold fog and they were actually wondering if that last mission was cursed somewhat. Yes, the weather in Britannia wasn't worth a dime, but this now was just over the top.

They huddled together against the fire – luckily they found a cave in which they would weather the night out. They were cold, wet and miserable. Bors was quietly cursing the Romans, Gawain was tending to his falcon and Dagonet was checking his weapons. Lancelot was cleaning his swords while Harry was staring into the fire. Artorius tended to his horse and expertly dodging Regis' teeth.

Harry's horse was still bad-tempered as usual, but tonight, not even the usual antics could cheer them up.

Dark eyes looked at the gathered knights, before the shadow vanished into the night.

* * *

Harry closed his eyes. Even if he had seen death, that didn't made him any more resistant to its' effects. One was, killing an enemy on the battlefield. Heck, even killing an animal for food was acceptable. But... outright torture...Those Romans were depraved. And they even dared squawk ing about their holiness and Christian values! At least they rescued a boy and the girl – the girl was giving Harry bad premonition for some reason. Harry closed his eyes. It was hard to know about... _that_. Nobody knew – Harry didn't tell anyone, but he seemed to know which one would die next. It was, as if he could see the cloak of death around their bodies.

Sometimes, he managed to avert the impending death. Like that time with Ector. But he could only avert if for a time, and not forever – Ector was the last one to fall, weakening their little group from ten to nine. And yet, the shadows were gathering again, and Harry had to gulp. This new girl – dark – haired and dark eyes, skinny with blue tint to her face – didn't bring nothing but misery.

She had sharp tongue, wounding Artorius and causing him to doubt his convictions. She managed to part Lancelot from Artorius – not that it had been hard to do, only strumming on Artorius' delicate sensibilities about belonging about duty and all that rot...

The battle was coming, and Harry was restless. Who – who would fall because of that blue-skinned witch? Who would leave them and step into the cold halls that nobody had returned from yet?

Snarling, he opened his eyes and jumped on his feet. "Harry? Where are you going?" Gareth asked him, concerned. "Out." Harry barked back. He stomped to his stallion and jumping onto the beast, not bothering about saddling or bridling it. The knights watched him disappear into the forest with wide eyes, while the settles were shuffling around their little fires uncomfortably.

Wide dark eyes looked at the frowning knight. "Lancelot?" She inquired softly. The knight looked at the witch they had rescued. "Something is bothering him..." He stated, dark eyes narrowing. Lately, Harry had became increasingly restless, but to go into the woods like that –

Something had to upset him to a great degree.

* * *

Gray eyes looked at the forest with concern. It would be dark soon, and Harry was still not back yet. Artorius exhaled a breath sharply, intending to reprimand the green – eyed knight sharply upon his return. He was not comfortable with Harry vanishing into the woods like this – even if he knew that Harry could take care of himself. At least Harry had taken Regis along – the huge mount would allow no one and nothing to harm his beloved master. Palming the hilt of his sword, he returned back to the thoughts about Merlin's proposal.

Sighing, he resigned to spending one more restless night watching over the camp.

* * *

The return into the citadel was without a cheer. While settlers were relieved that they were safe from the barbarians, the knights had mourned the loss of Dagonet. And adding the salt to the fresh wound, the arrogant bishop had the nerve to praise them, as if they were little puppies, _for a job well done!_ The _nerve_ of the idiot!

Harry had taken it the hardest and not even Lancelot could cheer up his friend. Lancelot himself had felt guilty about not being with Harry and choosing the company of the Woad girl, Guinevere, over his old friend's but he feared what would be if he would be alone with him. Those green eyes were just too dangerous to look into them for a long time. Guinevere was flattered that he had both Artorius and Lancelot on a proverbial leash – even if she was confused about their glances toward Harry's sulking form – but she chalked them up to the concern about their good friend.

Artorius was sitting on his bed, when she came. She was ethereal, all dark, glittering eyes, smooth skin that shone like milk in the moonlight and long hair.

He didn't want to think. He had decided. Harry wasn't here, he had gone away with Lancelot, and he, Artorius, would tomorrow be the lone protector of the Britannia. Even if he spouted all that bullshit about finding the meaning of his life – it still hurt that they left him.

That Harry left him.

His last war cry wasn't so much of a challenge to the Saxons, but more like a lone cry to the one that was riding away from him, to call him back, to have him beside himself.

And yet, Harry only returned the call and rode onward, with Lancelot.

Artorius couldn't fault them. The last mission was shit, and he wouldn't want his friend to die in the following struggle. However, one last part of his heart foolishly hoped that they would stay.

That he would stay.

His hear was hurting. His head was buzzing with strategies, what-ifs and him. He just wanted to forget those fifteen years somehow or at least forget the heartache that festered in that time.

He had missed on it; big time, and now, he would have to pay.

His bed sheets were cold. His body was, despite feeling hot, feeling curiously numb.

He wanted to forget.

And so, when she came, when he looked in her glittering eyes. "We don't know what tomorrow will bring. We have only tonight." The girl murmured at his face, her breath sweet and moist and warm on his skin.

And Artorius gave in.

* * *

It was bound to be a mess. They knew that not everyone would come out alive but still, they hoped -

When they joined with Artorius, again, they were grinning wildly, feeling so strong as if they could take over and conquer a world. They were to be together, in good and bad, and it was so good to be among those who you trusted with your back, to hear a familiar banter and shouts and dodging grumpy Regis' hooves and teeth.

They were wild, savage bunch that cursed, yelled, hollered and the nine of them would crush those Saxon fuckers ten feet under.

Lancelot smiled at the bloodthirsty smirk on Harry's face. Right now, Harry was happier than he had seen him in a long time an along with him, Lancelot also felt happier. But that was noting in comparison with Artorius' glowing face as he embraced the slight green-eyed man, much to Harry's sputtering and others' good natured ribbing and teasing.

They – the nine of them – were meant to be, either in life or in death. Why squabble with gods over that?

* * *

The Saxon warriors had gotten a chill when they saw one fully – armoured silhouette of a man and horse on the hill. Now, their blood positively froze at the sight of the nine warriors on their equestrian companions, all looking like nine unforgiving shades of death.

Cerdic may have been a chieftain, but even he couldn't help feeling a hint of dismay at seeing nine banners swishing in the wind. And yet, his bloodthirsty nature felt a savage glee at the thought of such a worthy opponent being crushed under his army.

The battle was bloody, underhanded and all around brutal. Guinevere screeched like fury from hell as she engaged in a fight with a blond- haired Saxon. Only, the fight didn't roll quite as she wished.

The man was too strong, too quick –

And it was only a luck that Lancelot distracted the man long enough that she could back away and reach for her trusty knives.

Harry was fighting like someone possessed with demons. The time was running out, and with so much death shades around –

He barely prevented one of the Saxons to kill Tristan, even if that left him weapon less.

But then, he got that chill up his spine.

Quickly, he turned around, and saw Lancelot getting up from the ground, still dizzy from the hits he had received, and the blonde Saxon –

_NO!_

* * *

The next few seconds passed as if in a slow movement.

The Saxon soldier snarled as he raised the knife and in that moment, Harry knew the intent. He roughly kicked Rufus into his sides, making the horse neigh angrily, but still the stallion complied and jumped toward the Saxon. In the last moment, Harry jumped off the horse and crushed Lancelot under his body. Almost half a moment later, he felt something cold slice his that and the last feeling he had before he fell into the darkness was something war gushing out of the wound.

For a moment, Lancelot was stunned, but when the gravity of the situation seeped into his brain, he roared with pain.

_"HARRY!"_

His howl attracted Artorius' attention almost immediately. For Lancelot to shout out with such a grief, there had to be only one reason.

Gray eyes widened as he saw – of only briefly – Lancelot cradling Harry in his arms, his chest and face coated with the warm red liquid.

Roaring with anger, he attacked Cerdic again – even if he was dizzy and Cerdic was stronger than him by far – in that moment, he got strength that pile-drived the stunned Saxon chieftain onto his knees. Cerdic screamed as his arms were broken with the flat side of the sword – and he howled as his collarbone was shattered. His last sight was of incensed stormy gray eyes, before he was sent to hell.

Growling, Lancelot grabbed the knife that ended Harry's life, still slick and warm with blood and with practised ease, he hurled it back to its sender. His aim was true – the Saxon soldier was dead on the spot. Then, he gently laid the corpse on the ground, grabbed his two swords and marched into the battle once more.

She stood at the side, horrified. The two men were fighting like demons. If they were good before, now, they were nigh invincible. She flinched as one of the Saxons roared at her, intending to slice her head off -

But his intentions were brutally halted as a huge gray stallion brutally crushed his skull via the hooves.

She had to fight back a bile as she watched the horse standing over its fallen master - and anyone who dared to come near, be it Saxon or Brit, they well under the deadly hooves or they had the parts of their bodies torn off by the sharp teeth. Soon, the place around him was empty as no one wanted to dare their luck long enough to kill the crazed beast.

Gulping, she inched away, only to yelp as she was pushed into the ring the horse made. Surprisingly enough, the horse tolerated her – but when she intended to crawl closer to Harry's corpse, the stallion whistled sharply and shown her his blood – coated teeth.

Flinching, she nodded. The message was clear enough.

* * *

The battle was won. The Saxon army – or the remains of it-fled away. Artorius' wrath made a deep impression, but the price they had paid for the victory was steep.

Artorius came to the place where Harry fell slowly. He still couldn't believe –

He was dirty, bloodied and sweaty, with numerous little aches rattling his body, but his heart was breaking.

Regis was growling mournfully in his chest – almost whining as he nudged Harry's cold body once again. The stallion's legs were red with blood up to his knees, and some of the blood was on his stomach, with some of the drops dripping from the dark gray tail. His muzzle was crimson too – somehow, he managed to free himself of the bridle and saddle and he was standing over Harry like the proud, vengeful force of nature that was now mourning the passing of his bipedal friend.

Lancelot was in a similar state. His face was red with blood and sweat, along with the front of his armor. He still clenched his two swords in his hands, but his eyes were dark with despair.

"Harry...Harry is dead?" Bors asked quetly. His voice was gravelly with disbelief.

Galahad nodded slowly.

Artorius crashed on his knees beside the Harry's body. Gently, he took it in his arms, as if afraid he would shatter it. He looked at the closed eyes and the deep, gaping wound on Harry's neck.

The bitter feeling rose up in his chest.

"It was _my_ life to be taken! " He howled against the sky. "Not his. _Never his!"_

The other knights approached their leader slowly.

"It was my fault," Lancelot grated out hollowly. "If I hadn't protected – "

Arthur looked at dark brown eyes of his tormented friend. "You – "He coughed out before he continued. "You couldn't have known."

Lancelot knelt in front of him. "How would _you_ know?" He asked harshly.

"If anyone's, the fault is mine," Tristan interrupted him. "Harry had saved my sorry hide with his knife, leaving him weapon less. So if you want to blame anyone... Blame me."

A dark silence reigned over them.

Shakily, Artorius sighed. "My brave knights...I – I have failed you. I neither took you off this island, nor shared your fate."

At this, Gawain gave a weak snort. "No fate is shared. If anything, we decided it ourselves." He shuffled on his feet uncomfortably.

Bors nodded. "As we did all." He rumbled out solemnly.

The wind blew gently over the battlefield, carrying away the stench of blood and burnt bodies and bringing the sharp scent of winter.

* * *

She watched the funeral quietly, her young face solemn. Both Artorius and Lancelot were moving slowly, as if they had been aged for half a century, while in reality, there was only a weight of grief on their shoulders.

She hung her head. It was her pride and foolishness that caused the two warriors to lose their best friend. She had thought she could take on that Saxon, but she was outsmarted and outpaced. If it hadn't been for Harry, Lancelot would be the one who would have been killed. In fact, Lancelot looked as if he rather would be killed than witness the funeral of his friend.

The pyre was lit, and the fire was devouring Harry's body greedily. Regis disappeared to who knew where and they didn't bother to search for him. From what she understood, Regis had obeyed only Harry and it would be a shame for such a stallion to be put down just because they couldn't have tame him properly.

Three months later Artorius was crowned as a king of Britain. Also, he wed Guinevere who was expecting a child from that single night they had spent together.

* * *

_Not much is known about their lives afterward. Knights still presided over the round table, and the gaps were filled with young men who were descendants of the first knights. They knew their code and they took care of their families and their estates._

_Artorius had died in one of the wars with the Saxons. He was heavily wounded, but he managed to kill his attacker. They managed to transport him to the citadel, but after five days, he died, but not before entrusting Lancelot with taking care of the land and its' people._

_After his death, Lancelot became the leader. He reigned along the Guinevere, although they never married. Their reign was prosperous for the people, although Lancelot had to defend the lands form the Saxon invaders almost constantly. Against all expectations, Lancelot had died of old age under the shade of the tree that was Harry's favourite place. His servants found him in the morning, looking as if he were sleeping, with a gentle smile on his face._

_The true story of the knights and their leader was later on embellished with chivalry and other useless ideals. They shown Artorius as a weak king that was constantly under female half of the court, Lancelot as a dashing prince who had a secret - or better, not so secret fling with the Guinevere, and Guinevere was sung about as a fair – haired beauty that enchanted many a men, although her hair was dark and she was, to speak the truth, a tomboy._

_History had told many stories about the thirteenth knight, but myths and legends forgot him. Nobody knows if it was for better or for worse, that the story of thirteenth knight was never encountered in the annals of singers and poets._

_It's probably better that it wasn't. Most of the time, humans don't accept the truth. And the truth, particularly that one, wouldn't have been accepted kindly._

_That the two men loved their friend and it was too late for them to be together – too late for anything to be done, too late to reverse the sacrifices..._

_However, time moved onward. People came and went, they were born, and they lived and died._

_And it was time for the three friends to be, once again, together._

**_/To Be Continued/_ **

 


End file.
